Page 150 of Secret Obsession
Violet says my parents do love me. That their love is in their acts of service, or whatever bullshit that is. And yeah, maybe they do care enough to do those things for me. But it doesn’t mean anything when I don’t hear the words or feel their touch. When I grew up without knowing in my heart that that’s what they were giving me. My house has always been cold.
I mean, it could be a fantasy that Violet cooked up all on her own. A way to heal me.
Newsflash: I’m unhealable. I’ve got ugly scars all over my insides from a weird, draining childhood. Nothing particularly bad happened, but it left me traumatized all the same.
How fucked up is that?
Maybe it has nothing to do with my parents, and it’s just a personality defect. Or a chemical imbalance in my brain, like depression or anxiety.
Here, have a totally fucking normal childhood, and we’ll watch as your insides get scrambled up anyway.
“You’re not hard to love,” Miles interrupts. “I don’t know how you could think that.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Do you know how reinforced that is? Your brother did everything he could to make me fall for him, and I fuckingdid. Past all the fucked-up mind-bending, I actually did think I loved him. And he laughed. He told the whole room what I said and made me the punchline of a joke.”
“I hit him in the face for that,” he admits. “You’re not a prickly cactus, Willow. You’re not any harder to love than I am.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. He passes me another puck and heads toward the goal crease. “I’ll prove it to you.”
I tighten my grip on the stick. “If I get a goal, I want you to get my name tattooed on your dick.”
He spins to face me, continuing to skate backward, and smirks. “That won’t convince me to try very hard.”
My jaw drops.
“Matching tattoos,” he declares. “If I stop your shots, you get a tattoo with me.”
I’m already shaking my head before he finishes.
“Come on, Willow,” he goads. “Are you scared?”
“I’m not getting your name on my face or neck or anywhere visible—”
His smile is positively wicked. “I was thinking about a spot I was licking earlier…”
Oh, fuck.
Well… that would be interesting. And I find that I’m not entirely against that idea. I mean, I don’twanthis name tattooed on my pussy. Right?
No, Willow, you don’t.And the renewed pulse between your legs is just a coincidence.
I retrieve a few pucks, angling them toward the center of the rink. I practice taking one around in a circle, experimenting with how the fuck I’m going to get it past Miles. He’s got the pads on his arms and legs, plus the stick—but none of the padding protecting his chest.
How badly do I want a groin shot?
And then something else occurs to me. “How many chances do I get?”
He scans the ice, then shrugs. “You can use all the pucks I set out once. Fair?”
“Enough,” I mumble, counting how many that gives me. Twelve. Notterrible. Maybe I’ll get lucky… A girl can dream, right?
46
MILES
Didn’t think I’d ever have to goaltend with a stiff dick, but here we are.
